Michael Smith - Rivers

The bridge was there. But so was the flood that had washed them away last night. The push of the water had not broken the bridge or its rails but it was at least two feet over the road. Cohen drove the truck right up to the edge of the muddy, rushing water and stopped. On the other side of the bridge was a sign that read 49 JUNCTION AHEAD.

“That’s it,” Mariposa said.

“That’s it,” Cohen answered. He killed the ignition. He got out of the truck and took a gas can from the truck bed and emptied it into the truck. Then he walked around to the front and out into the water. Up on the land, the current wasn’t as strong so he tested it, walked closer to the bridge until the water rose knee-deep and pushed him and caused him to stretch out his arms to catch his balance. He was another six or seven steps from the bridge and the water surged confidently. Cohen backed out of the water and stood in the rain at the front of the truck. He stood with his hands on his hips and he looked up and down the small, strong river.

He turned and walked back to the truck and got in and he found Mariposa bent over and crying. He reached for her but she shoved his hand away and rose and cried out, “Evan. Evan and Brisco. Jesus, Cohen.”

They had both been wrong but she was right now and he hoped to God it wasn’t too late, that they hadn’t wasted too much time and that the boys weren’t being hurt. He hoped to God that the extra minutes and the extra miles wouldn’t cost them and he felt like one of them, like one of those who only searched for a moment’s weakness and took what mattered right then without the thought of another man. He felt like one of those he had been fighting against. Like one of those he hated. He hoped to God this didn’t cost them.

He put the truck in reverse and spun around, then shifted into drive and they were moving as fast as they could move through the infinite storm. Mariposa kept calling out for Evan, telling him they were sorry. Telling him that they didn’t mean it. Telling him they were coming. Please hold on.

THE POWER OF THE STORM was evident as they tried to get back to Ellisville. Newly fallen trees and freshly flooded roads kept them backtracking and twisting and winding. With each blocked pathway and wasted mile, their anxiety grew stronger. And so did the storm. What little relenting there had been was gone and now the back end came on with a recognizable power.

They had been in the truck for almost three hours as they approached and drove toward the town square and the bedlam showed itself. Somehow black smoke wafted in the air amid the rain and wind. Road signs and big branches and other debris were scattered across the water-covered streets. Cohen drove the truck to the back of the café and the back door was open and through the doorway he and Mariposa saw people inside, fighting over boxes of hamburger buns and bags of potato chips and hitting at one another with giant spoons.

“Oh my God,” Mariposa said.

Cohen didn’t stop but stomped on the gas, splashing through the standing water, and at the end of the buildings he turned onto the square. They saw the missing awning and the broken windows and the busted doorways and the people running about without regard for the storm and the black smoke coming out of the top floor of a corner building. Cohen drove to the front of the café and slammed on the brakes and the café was filled with scavengers. The square was filled with scavengers. Several bodies lay in the water up and down the sidewalk.

Cohen grabbed the door handle and Mariposa grabbed him and said, “Don’t, Cohen.”

“Hell, I have to. What the hell else are we gonna do?”

“I don’t know,” she said and she was scared and he was scared and worse, he didn’t have a gun or a bat or even a big stick.

“He can’t be up there. Can he?” Cohen said. He looked all around. Slammed his fists on the steering wheel and said goddammit goddammit. The rain beat like a thousand drums and amplified the desperation.

From the sidewalk a cluster of men stopped what they were doing and stared at the truck. Then one of them pointed.

“Cohen,” Mariposa said and the men began to run toward them and Cohen put the truck in reverse and spun around, hitting the curb he couldn’t see under the water on the opposite side of the street. The truck bounced and Mariposa and Cohen bounced. Her head smacked against the window and Cohen fumbled to get it into drive as they came quick and surrounded the vehicle. They realized Cohen didn’t have a gun or he would have used it by now. Ragged, limp clothes and ragged, limp faces and arms held out as if the truck were a crazed animal that needed to be calmed before being caged. Cohen reached over and opened the glove box though he knew nothing was there and then he did the same underneath the seat and Mariposa locked her door as if that would matter. Cohen got hold of a tire iron and he waved it at them ineffectually. But then a series of shots were fired from somewhere and one of the men grabbed the back of his leg and went down and the others turned and scattered.

“Get down,” Cohen yelled but Mariposa was looking and spotted the gunman in the second-floor window above the café.

“It’s Evan,” she yelled and pointed. Evan sat in the window with the barrel of the rifle aimed down at the street. The glass was gone from the window and he knelt on the floor with his elbows on the window ledge. Evan waved them toward the building as Brisco stood behind him with his hands on his brother’s shoulders.

Evan leaned out and fired several more shots to ward off any others and Cohen put the truck in drive and jetted across the street. The crowd split as it bounced onto the sidewalk and its front end hit the storefront as it slid to a stop.

“Get Brisco,” Cohen told Mariposa as they grabbed at the door handles and hurried out.

Cohen pumped the tire iron at the café as he moved underneath the window and someone called out, “That ain’t shit!” There were maybe twenty of them bunched in the café and twice that many along the sidewalk and they immediately began to creep toward the truck.

“Throw me something!” Cohen said and flung away the tire iron. Evan dropped the sawed-off shotgun out of the window just as Mariposa screamed as two women had come up behind her and snatched the back of her coat. Cohen turned and fired into a piece of twisted metal awning that was lodged in the café window. The women let go and dove back into the café. He waved the shotgun at the rest of them and they held still.

“I got the doors jammed up with everything up here and we can’t get out,” Evan yelled down.

“Jump on the top of the truck,” Cohen yelled back.

Mariposa climbed onto the hood and then on top of the cab and held out her arms for Brisco. No no no, he called out, but his feet appeared out the window and then there he came and he fell right into Mariposa. She lost her balance and they slid down the windshield and landed on the hood. She grabbed Brisco around the waist and got them down off the hood and into the truck and then there came the thwack thwack of bullet holes into the tailgate of the truck.

“Back there,” Evan yelled and Cohen turned to see a handful of men coming at him around the truck bed. Evan fired three quick shots and one of the men went down and another grabbed his arm and the rest covered their heads and ran. But it seemed like in every direction the crowd was gathering to rush Cohen and in the roar of the rain it was damn near impossible to see who was coming from where. Another thwack and Cohen ducked in front of the truck.

“Corner building,” Evan called and he fired across the square at the building where he had seen the white flashes. Cohen’s back pressed against the truck grille and he pointed the shotgun at the café.